


there's no plan, no race to be run

by whataboutateakettle



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-15 23:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutateakettle/pseuds/whataboutateakettle
Summary: "Shouldn’t we at least have, like, a contingency plan or something?"// September, 2012.





	there's no plan, no race to be run

**Author's Note:**

> a) this is a super duper fictional imagining of characters with real-life names and lives so please keep this **safe** and **secret** etc etc.
> 
> b) i've been thinking lots about long-distance relationships recently, for more personal reasons and this was kind of born from that. 
> 
> c) title from no plan by hozier, whose new album made me think of these two a lot. which probably says more about me than it does about them. who knows. 
> 
> d)enjoy????

* * *

“This is, objectively, a bad idea.”

He says it and instantly regrets it. Of course he does. He’s spent nearly 30 years talking without thinking and it’s pretty unlikely that he’d start here and now. Still though, it’s the kind of statement that starts fights and ruins night, and he’s trying to not do that right now.

Ronan stops in his tracks, on the other side of the bed from where Jon is sitting, and frowns in that way that wrinkles his forehead.There’s a half packed suitcase between them, Ronan’s clothes strewn on either side. Actually, one of those T-shirts is Jon’s, but he hasn’t worn it in months and it probably looks better on Ronan anyway. That’ll be a nice image to hold on to while they have this conversation he knows he shouldn’t have started.

“You don’t think I should pack the second coat?” Ronan asks finally, picking up said coat from the suitcase and holding it up, inspecting it in the light. “You’re right, I can always buy another one over there.”

Jon’s lips twitch and he has to look away, down at his phone in his hand, to give himself a moment. His twitter feed had long ago become less interesting than watching Ronan fold his jeans. A wave of fondness washes over him, and then sadness, and then, just to spite himself, he turns it into antagonism and leans in.

“Ronan.”

“Jonathan,” Ronan counters. Jon watches him drop the coat onto the bed and walk around to him. He’s sitting up against the headboard, knees pulled to his chest for absolutely no other reason than to give Ronan more space to pack.

Ronan sits down on the bed in front of him. “What are you thinking?” He asks gently, resting a hand on the top of Jon’s knee.

He’s thinking he probably could’ve started this conversation at any point before Ronan’s last night in D.C. Or preferably not at all.

He raises his shoulders and drops them heavily. “I’m just trying to be objective here. It’s not exactly a fool-proof - I mean, shouldn’t we at least have, like, a contingency plan or something?”

Ronan’s rubbing his thumb reassuringly against Jon’s sweatpants, as he looks him in the eye. There’s a lift to his lips, but his voice is serious. “Well, _objectively_ , I’d say this past year has gone pretty well. Hasn’t it?”

Jon's too reflective (self-absorbed) and too straightforward (impatient; blunt) to not know where they're at, dating-wise. For better or for worse, every stage of their relationship so far has been a conscious choice. Every trip cross-country, every plus-one invite to fancy events, every Skype-based dinner date. Choices Jon has enjoyed and would like to continue to make. So yes, he knows exactly how well this last year has gone.

Ronan’s still looking at him with a warm expectant look, like he’s ready to solve all of Jon’s problems if only he would give him the chance. His thumb is still rubbing gently against his knee, steady and soft.

Jon should listen to him; Ronan _is_ the more objective one here. Ronan is the questions everything, reads both sides of the diner menu, takes the devil’s side amount of objective. So then Ronan also knows that they’re working with a very different set of variables than they were a year ago.

He sighs, “Oxford is a lot further than LA.”

Ronan opens his mouth, as though considering this bombshell of a fact Jon just dropped on them, before cocking his head slightly. “It’s only three thousand more miles,” he says and Jon stares at him for a moment.The fondness is back, knowing that Ronan had looked it up. Or maybe he just knew that; it seems like something Ronan would just know.

“ _Only_ three thousand miles? Three _thousand_ miles.” He mutters, but his smile betrays him again.

“Think of all the frequent flyer miles we’ll get,” Ronan says, patting Jon’s knee before pulling himself closer and pressing a kiss against his cheek.

“I need to finish packing though,” He continues, “Otherwise we’ll miss our dinner reservations.”

Jon watches as he walks back around to his open suitcase, folds the aforementioned coat back into place. “We could, you know? We could just hang out here. I could stay in my sweatpants, I know that’s very enticing to you.”

Ronan grins, raises an eyebrow at him, but otherwise carries on packing. Jon just keeps talking.

* * *

Ronan holds the door open for him, which is a thing he’s sort of gotten used to now. Not in a romantic way, because Ronan also holds the door open for the other, older couple leaving the restaurant at the same time. Jon’s got two glasses of wine in him, enough to want to hold Ronan’s hand in the street, but not enough to not worry about it first. Also not enough to keep him warm, apparently.

Out on the sidewalk, the couple stop to thank Ronan again and Jon shoves his hands into his jacket, pushing his fists together in front of him to ward off the DC chill. It’s not even that cold, probably, but he’s gotten too used to the permanent shorts he’s adopted in LA.

They were supposed to go home after dinner, but Jon’s heard about this new bar that has an actual library in it, and it’s only a few blocks away. And does it sound pretentious as hell, yes. But is it something Ronan would genuinely love, also yes. So he takes the opportunity to watch him i his element and insists that overpriced drinks are the right way to end their last night together. Ronan doesn't put up a fight.

He bumps his shoulder against Ronan’s upper arm as they walk, his hands still shoved in his pockets.

“How early do I have to get up tomorrow?”

Ronan smiles like he knows what Jon really means to ask. “Not that early. I told my Mom I’d get to the farm by lunch time.”

Jon makes a face. “Are you kidding me? It’s a six hour drive!”

Ronan considers this for a moment and then shrugs. “A late lunch,” he says, and pulls Jon closer by the elbow to let someone walk past them. “I should probably be on the road by eight.”

Jon makes another face and realizes that he’s already forgotten that early means something totally different in D.C than it does in L.A.

“You could come with me, you know. My mom loves you.”

“Don’t say that,” Jon says, “Hollywood Icon Mia Farrow can’t love _me_. There’s nowhere for me to go after that.”

He knows jokes like that make Ronan a little uncomfortable, and he gets it, in a way that he know he will never truly get. But he can appreciate it. There’s a beat of silence before he switches gears.

”Besides, I’ve moved to the UK before. Trust me, moms do _not_ take it well. She’ll want you to herself, to get all the-” he waves his hands, “ _momming_ out of her system.”

Ronan hums in acknowledgement, because they both know he is right about that, and then stops walking. His hand is still on Jon’s arm which makes him stop walking too.

“I’ll be going home for Christmas. Will you come with me then?”

Jon gazes up at him, wonders for a moment why Ronan is suddenly so insistent on this. He’s been to the farm, he’s met Mia, they had a great ol’ time. Mia is maybe the nicest person he’s ever met. And still there’s another part of this, the thought of spending Christmas with the whole extended family, with generations of Farrows, which makes him feel a unsettled.

Ronan takes his hesitation as exactly what it is, looks at him pointedly. “What, are you busy? I’m pretty sure Hanukkah is early this year.” The het rolls off his tongue like it has no business to do.

“Ridiculous,” Jon huffs dramatically, “You’re using my own Judaism against me,” and decides they should get moving before Ronan offers to get a Menorah for him. He reaches and takes Ronan’s hand in his, fits their fingers together, and pulls him in the direction of the bar.

* * *

“You know you can come visit whenever you want,” Ronan says as he’s closing his front door behind them.

He takes off his jacket and hangs it on Ronan’s coat hook, feels a small sense of accomplishment for not just throwing it somewhere.

“I have responsibilities in LA you know.” He does, he really does, and yet he can already picture himself looking up flight prices. He imagines for a moment what visiting Ronan would look like. Would he stay in his dorm, would they wander around campus? "I can't just fly to England to keep you company."

Ronan’s already gone into the kitchen, and Jon pulls out of his ow thoughts just in time to miss what he’s saying.

“What?” He asks, follows him into the kitchen and leans against the empty kitchen counter. Everything has been tidied away, ready to be abandoned for months at a time. He guesses that’s part of the luxury of having your own place, he still wouldn’t know.

“I said I’m sure I can find you a decent coffee shop to write out of in Oxford,” Ronan grins at him and pulls out a bottle of wine from under the sink. “You want a drink?”

“You should get used to offering people tea, otherwise you’ll never fit in over there,” He replies, and Ronan laughs light and amused, exactly like he’s supposed to.

“Thanks for the tip, ” he nods, and sets forth on opening the bottle. Jon watches him for a moment, enjoys how the stark kitchen light reflects off his light hair, enjoys how he’s still wearing his suit, enjoys how precisely he handles the corkscrew.

Jon pushes himself off the counter and across the kitchen, tucks himself into Ronan’s side and reaches up to place his palm against Ronan’s cheek and turn his face towards him. He lets himself enjoy the view for a second, of Ronan gazing down at him, his eyes warm and dark, before he pushes himself up on his toes and presses their lips together.

* * *

Ronan’s still kneeling at the end of the bed gazing up at him, his hair messed up, his are lips red. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and asks, “Would you feel better if we had a plan?”

Meanwhile, Jon’s brain isn’t even working properly yet. He drops his head back onto the headboard with a soft thud.

“What?” He sounds out finally.

“We never really finished that conversation from earlier.”

And he wants to finish it _now_? Jon watches wordlessly as Ronan shuffles his way back up the bed, and readjusts the covers until there’s enough for both of them, and then, finally, realises that Jon isn’t actually going to say anything. “I know we never had _a plan_ , as such. But our situation is changing - ”

“Yeah, you’re moving to Oxford,” Jon finds his voice and it’s way more accusatory than he intended it to be. He blames the fact that he’s still not totally clear-headed. They weren’t the kind of people that would hold each other back from their lives, they just weren’t. He didn't want to be that guy, that partner who made someone feel bad about their dreams. He just... it's hard.

Ronan fixes him a quick look. And he knows, Jon knows he knows. Last year, when he was getting ready to leave for L.A. they’d had this exact conversation, except that now there are 10 more months and three thousand more miles to take into account.

Jon scoots down a bit so he's at the same height at Ronan, rests his head on his arm.  “What, exactly, are you proposing?”

“Relax, Jonathan, I’m not," Ronan laughs softly, "I mean - What has worked for us is just focusing on enjoying what we have, right? Maybe that doesn’t have to change. Maybe _that_ could be our contingency plan, as you put it. Just… You and me, until further notice.”

“Until further notice? You’re a real romantic, Farrow.” Jon laughs, “A real Casanova.”

He lets his smile dissipate and then reaches over and lays his palm on Ronan's bare shoulder, moving it over his skin lightly. “I like this, I love this. But you know, I’ve seen this movie, I don’t want you to feel like you’re missing - like you can’t enjoy Oxford because you have a boyfriend back here.”

He pauses then, because the gravity of the situation hits him straight in the chest, winds him almost. Of course he _knows_ that’s what he is and that’s what's happening, but he hasn't exactly spent a lot of time saying it out loud. “I mean, the best boyfriend, _objectively_. But the point is still - I’ve been there, I know what they’re like with their accents and their European charm and their metric systems and -”

“Jonathan,” Ronan finally, thankfully, interrupts him. He nudges himself closer to Jon, “The only thing I’ll be missing in Oxford is you.”

Jon bites down on his lip hard. “Okay. Okay, that was a good line. That was-” But Ronan kisses him before he can finish, pushes him back down into the mattress.

* * *

Jon wakes up first, eyes heavy and head fuzzy from not getting enough sleep. He’s beaten both Ronan and their alarms, which never happens. He drags his head up from his pillow and rolls over to the middle of the bed, where Ronan is snoring gently on his side. He realizes now what Ronan had probably realized a while ago: that they had no idea when they would see each other next. Sure, Ronan’s birthday was coming up in a couple of months, then Christmas, and he'd be back for that. But there were no tickets booked, no dates penciled in. Suddenly Ronan’s insistence on him coming to the farm, his desire for Jon to visit him in Oxford made more sense. Suddenly he wishes he’d been more open to the idea.

He could wake Ronan up now, and they would probably still have time to fool around or whatever, before Ronan folds up the bed sheets to wash at Mia’s house. They could get a real breakfast, instead of Ronan insisting he’d eat whatever he could find at the first gas station. He could actually pack his bag, instead of throwing everything in before he heads to Favs’ place for the next few days.

But he thinks about what Ronan said last night. The two of them, together, until further notice. And honestly, he knows that as soon as Ronan wakes up, the morning would run away from them, and he’d be standing on the curb saying goodbye. Here, now, he can pretend there’s a little bit more time.

So he shuffles in as close to Ronan as he can without waking him up, rests his head back on his pillow, and just enjoys it.


End file.
